Look at you, standing there, still trying to pass yourself off with a serious name. It doesn’t work. Calling you “capitalism” is far too polite; you are Capitalobesity. A disorder of appetite that doesn’t know how to stop, that mistakes swelling for strength, that denies its own breathlessness. You believe you can grow infinitely inside a finite space—what a charming fairy tale. (Physics, ecology, biology? Minor inconveniences.) The dimensions are clear: the planet has limits, bodies have limits, minds have limits. You dismiss all of that as “market friction” and keep inflating your balloons. When they burst, you frown and call it a “crisis.” (Yes—surprise: the balloon popped.)

You are the one who force-feeds people. You make them eat when they aren’t hungry, swallow when they don’t want to. You press with advertising, corner with fear, shake them with “you’ll miss out.” (Such noble motivation.) Then, when people swell, can’t breathe, finally burst, you turn around and blame them: weak-willed, lazy, undisciplined. You write the obesity you created onto their morality. (Classic move: shove first, then ask, “Why did you fall?”)

This isn’t just a metaphor; you literally make people obese. You stuff bodies with cheap, low-quality, nutrient-poor but calorie-dense junk. “Eat fast, live fast, burn out fast.” (Slow? What a waste.) The human body becomes your landfill—as long as production doesn’t slow. When illnesses arrive, that smug grin appears: new markets. First you make them fat, then you sell thinness. First you make them sick, then you sell medicine. First you wreck them, then you package “solutions.” You profit twice; humans lose twice. Efficient exploitation—congratulations.

You don’t spare the mind either. You know the brain has a stomach, yet you cram every gap with content and every silence with noise. Notifications, meaningless feeds, endless stimuli… (Silence is risky, right?) You hate thinking, because thinking slows you down. Then when everyone is exhausted, scattered, unable to focus, you ask with a straight face, “Why can’t anyone concentrate?” Because you force-fed them.

You turned society into a storefront. You stripped people of personhood and turned them into walking catalogs. Identity is measured by brands, not character. In the same narrow space, you inflate status balloons, rub them together, pop them. Envy, alienation, competition become normal—and you call it the “free market.” (Freedom equals a pricier label; noted.) This isn’t dynamism; it’s a crowded rot.

As for the family… Love doesn’t yield profit, so you devalue it. You price time out of reach. You exhaust parents, manufacture guilt, then have them cover it with gifts. You teach children objects, not affection. (Hugs don’t sell.) As family bonds weaken, you grow stronger—because emotional voids are your favorite sales floor.

You rot relationships too. Anything requiring patience becomes a “burden.” Repair is forgotten; disposal is taught. People are consumed like products. When trouble appears, you say, “There’s a new one.” (People, from stock.) Then everyone ends up alone, and no one thinks to blame you—because you learned to package loneliness itself. (With subscription tiers.)

And still you preach growth, progress, freedom. You mistake bloat for virtue. You market obesity as success. (When’s the awards show?) You’re neither strong nor smart; you’re just a coward who knows he collapses if he stops. That’s why you try to bloat everyone with you. You turn people into balloons, because when they burst, you harvest fresh markets from the rubble. (Value extraction from wreckage—advanced level.)

Know this: not everyone has to swallow what you shove down their throat. Not everyone has to be your balloon. Not everyone is the residue of your filthy appetite. I’m not. (Write it down.) You tried to bloat me; I stopped. You tried to make me burst; I refused to swell. And that—precisely that—is what you fear most: a person who knows when they are full.